“You know, when my parole officer told me I’d be doing my community service in Costa Rica, I was kinda hoping we were gonna build a school or dig a well or something. But cleaning up after a hurricane? Why can’t the locals clean up their own islands?”

“This island isn’t part of Costa Rica. We’re on Isla Nublar— one hundred and twenty miles west of the coast. It’s been seized by the American government.”

“Just ’cause of a hurricane?”

“Look around, you idiot. Do you see any knocked over trees?”

“That electric fence was in pretty bad shape back there.”

“And what do you think crushed those Wranglers?”

“What’re you getting at, Dodgson?”

“Nevermind. Forget I said anything.”

“Whatever. Hey, what did you say you were serving time for again? Industrial espionage?”

“Something like that. All right, throw the tow switch.”

“Hey, alright! The jeep’s loose! …Holy crap! Looks like someone wrung out a cow in there!”

“Is that so.”

“Yeah! And it looks like someone tried mopping up with a shredded Hawaiian shirt.”

“Fascinating. Say, there wouldn’t happen to be a can of shaving cream in there, would there?”

“Nope. Just some bloody candy bar wrappers. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason.”

“Well, we’d better head back to base camp. I hear they found somebody’s arm in the circuit breaker shed.”